


No Gift To Give

by quickreaver



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 20:57:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9141913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quickreaver/pseuds/quickreaver
Summary: A blizzard, a haunting, an unexpected delivery...





	

Sam's driving, because Dean has a knot on his head the size of a fist, and even though he denies it, Sam knows Dean's still seeing stars. He's got that tell-tale, half-crosseyed stare and tugged brow of a mild concussion, and no amount of pulling rank will get Sam to surrender the wheel.

They almost turned around and headed back to Jody's, but the thought of Claire and Alex bickering—in jest or not—and Jody mothering, and Cas and Donna making sly, moony eyes at each other (Who'da thunk it?) was just too much Christmas cheer, by about an avalanche. As well-meaning as it all was, holidays were a hard sell for Sam, and judging by how quickly Dean agreed with him, Dean felt the same. They'd jumped on a routine gremlin extermination and if not for a random patch of ice, it would've gone off without a hitch. Now, all they wanted was a quiet, open-all-night hole in the wall and a bottle of liquid comfort.

Dean fidgets, though. He doesn't like riding shotgun unless it's his choice. He zips his coat up to his chin and huffs, cranks up the heater against the last of December's bite, and plays with the radio until he finds a station that isn't static or overdue carols. They're miles from nowhere, rattling down a road that cuts through fallow fields. The moon is a cloud-shrouded hole in the sky. Sam's hands are sticky with the blood of dead things, and it's New Year's fucking Eve. But at least they've got three-quarters of a tank of gas and if Sam has to drive 'til dawn to find someplace open, he can do that.

Dean stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Shoulda gotten coffee. Somewhere.”

“We haven't passed 'somewhere' … anywhere … since Mosquito Creek.” Sam looks over, raises his brows. “I've got Altoids?”

“You know, there's an ointment for that.”

“For a 'curiously strong mint'?”

“It's ten degrees out and you're offering me peppermints? Seriously?”

“Bet you Jody packed something with the Chex Mix for us.”

“Too much work.”

“Suit yourself.” But Sam's smirking, and Dean burrows deeper into his coat.

The car rumbles on, highbeams cutting the gloom and making bright specs of the beginnings of snowfall. Fleetwood Mac tells the tale of a gold-dust woman, on the radio.

“We in Minnesota yet?” Dean mumbles into his collar.

“Probably. You've got a phone. Mapquest it.”

Dean wags his elbows, demonstrating how getting out his phone would compromise his warm hands. Priorities.

So Sam pulls a face and digs his own phone from a coat pocket, thumbs it to life. Unsurprisingly, he gets no reception. Phone towers are few and far between out here. He tosses the phone onto the seat between them. They both sigh.

The snow picks up, starts to thicken and blanket the landscape in dense white. Sam honestly wouldn't mind the snow if they weren't driving in it. Under different circumstances, say, in front of a roaring fire that wasn't burning bones, it might be cozy. But as it is, he has to drag to a crawl as the road gets slick and visibility drops to nearly nothing. It's slow going, but at least it's going. Dean manages to nod off to the dulcet tones of Cheap Trick. They've just passed over the Rock River when the situation goes from shit to shittier. Or what's more commonly known as Winchester Luck.

The radio fritzes into static and the headlights flicker. The Impala chokes, slides to a stop on the shoulder and it gets very, very quiet. Dean wakes up with a start.

“What the … what?” He's blinking, glancing around. The car's pinging as it cools, and Sam tries the ignition again. All the life has been sucked from the battery. Never a good thing under normal conditions, even less so in a blizzard. Miles from anywhere. With no overt cause for the malfunction.

Sam picks up his phone and reconfirms that yes, indeed, they're still in a dead zone, or the phone has been drained too. It's deep night beyond the car windows, without even streetlights or ambient city glow. Not ominous at all.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Dean says, under his breath; Sam doesn't need to reply. They sit for a few minutes in miserable silence until Sam tries the car again. It's still as dead as a brick.

They begin to listen more closely to the howl of the wind, looking for a figure in the storm.

"How long can we sit here?" Sam asks after a fashion, after the windows are covered in steam from their breaths and no headlights have cut brought the storm from either direction. The temperature is dropping rapidly.

"Why? You wanna cuddle?"

"So very much. I planned all this romance." Sam deadpans.

Dean snorts and smears a hand along his window. "Hey..."

Sam leans across him, squinting to see what's caught Dean's attention. The storm has lightened marginally, and unless he and Dean are having some sort of shared hallucination, there's actually a tiny, warm glow flickering across the field, off to the left. "Is that a barn?" 

Dean nods. "I think so, man." He reaches over Sam to get his Taurus from the glovebox, and Sam pulls his head back before Dean checks the chamber and clocks him in the face.

"You're going out in this?"

"You got a Plan B?"

"It's probably some kind of lure, yanno." But Sam's reaching over the back seat into his duffel for the sawed-off, because if this is a haunting and the ghost has sucked all the juice from their car—and possibly phones—in order to manifest, there's little chance of regaining power until the haunt is toasted. He just hopes they don't have to burn down the barn. Could get doubly complicated.

They zip their coats, fish hats and gloves from the mess on the floor of the car, and head into the snowy night.

It's a laborious trudge across the field, the snow hitting Sam halfway up his shins, and it is, indeed, a barn. The structure leans conspicuously, the wood grayed with age and bleeding light from within. The wind isn't quite howling—snow seems to muffle sound—but Sam's pretty sure he hears soft keening. Deans pauses at the slightly open door and draws his gun; he hears it too.

He gives Sam a readying glance and slides the door open just enough to peer inside. The crying stops.

The light appears to be an oil lantern, hovering as though hung from a rafter, shimmering suspiciously. It has the mirage-like quality of oil on water, and Sam bends toward Dean, whispers in his ear, "Residual haunting?" Dean shrugs.

They crack the door open wide enough to slip through, and something whimpers from a dim corner, the reflective gleam of eyes flashing briefly before the figure quiets again, sinking back into a mound of straw.

Dean lifts his gun and levels it at the dark shape, stepping forward and crouching just enough for Sam to move in behind and aim over his head, if need be.

"You better come out," Dean commands. The lantern flares, sending shadows skittering. 

Sam splits off to the left, sawed-off nocked against his shoulder. The spirit cries out, even though they haven't done a damned anything to it yet. Dean cuts Sam a baffled glance.

"We're not here to hurt you," Sam lies. "Come on out." Panic and pain issues through the atmosphere, as thick as their steaming breaths.

The ghost oozes into view, and Sam sees a tiny woman, her dark skin glowing with sweat. A red kerchief is wrapped crookedly around her head and she's backed herself into a corner, thin fingers clutching her gravid middle. Her apron and skirt are wet at the hem.

"Holy shit," Sam says under his breath, as Dean rounds the hay mound and echoes the sentiment with his own expletive.

Her eyes are fever-bright, darting from one man to the other.

"H-help me." It's a plaintive mewl. 

Sam pauses, weighing their options, and makes an executive decision. He sets his shotgun aside, much to Dean's obvious alarm.

"Humor me," Sam says, because he really doesn't feel like blasting a fistful of rocksalt into a pregnant woman, ghost or no. There's more than one way to tackle a haunting, despite Dean's preference to shoot first, ponder options later.

Dean rolls his eyes but isn't ready to put away his gun, not yet. "Not sure I like where this is going, Sammy," he mumbles.

The ghost cries out again, arching her back in obvious misery.

"Okay, okay, um." Sam has no legitimate idea how this is going to work. He rips off his knit hat and extends what he hopes is a calming hand to her, creeping into a crouch by her knees.

She flickers, static and shadow. The hair on the nape of Sam's neck prickles, and he sees Dean shudder, feeling it too. Her breath catches as her eyes land on Dean's gun, and the barn shutters and groans, bits of shingles and snow dropping from above.

"Hey, what's your name?" Sam quickly asks, begging for her attention with the power of an earnest expression alone. He's afraid to move. The energy in the air is palpable; if she keeps rattling the roof and it collapses, there might be more than one ghost nailed to this spot come 2017.

"L-Lanny," she whimpers.

"Okay, Lanny, we're gonna try to help you, but you've got to settle down a little."

She looks at Sam like he just sprouted a third eye in the middle of his forehead. "Mister, you ain't having a baby!"

"She's got you there," Dean says, and he slowly slips the gun back behind his waistband.

Sam's aiming a scowl at Dean when the ghost howls again, and the barn quakes. Dean's eyes fly open and he gestures wildly, palms up. Sam knows how he feels. He squeamishly plucks the hem of her skirt between thumb and forefinger, and the chill nearly burns.

"Dean, ANYTIME."

Dean clambers over the hay and stares helplessly down at the scene. A piece of the rafters cracks and drops, not a foot away.

Sam is pointedly avoiding looking up the ghost's skirts, engaging her eyes instead, as he bites off his gloves by the fingertips. He gets his hands under her skirts and says, in his calmest voice, "Lanny, when I say push, you push, okay?"

Tears squeeze from the corners of her eyes and the barn stills for just a heartbeat. He can tell she's steeling herself for the next contraction. Sam looks up at Dean as she starts squirming with returning pain. His face is perfectly mortified.

"PUSH," Sam commands.

She wails, head thrown back, the tendons of her slender neck as taut as violin string. But the baby isn't budging. Sam's not even sure there should be a baby. This is easily the strangest salt-n-burn they've ever tackled.

"Where is it?!" Dean barks.

"I ... I think it's stuck."

"Are you kidding me?"

"Of course I'm not kidding you. Why would I kid—"

The ghost starts working up another wail and the barn walls shudder.

"Dean, you gotta push on her."

"Yeah. NO."

"Think about it. Her spirit probably died in childbirth here, and it's anchored to the spot. If she gives birth—"

"Sam, this is the stupidest—"

Another screams splits the air, the barn jutters, and Dean pulls a grimace as he barely touches the ghost's heaving belly

Sam shouts, "PUSH."

Dean leans in and presses, Lanny grits her phantasmal teeth and clenches her eyes shut, and it's an eternal moment as the barn rattles as though the winter wind is pummeling it apart. Sam flinches as straw whips into his face. 

"Do we have a baby yet?!" Dean yells.

"I don't know! I—"

Cold washes over Sam's hands and he hears the high-pitched squall of what could've been a baby, if babies were wild pitiful things. He has his eyes pinched shut against the debris and cacophony when it suddenly ends. Sam cracks open an eye to see the snow drifting through the dark, cold barn from a void in the roof.

Dean straightens, staring at his hands incredulously. "We just ... what did we just do?"

Sam sits back, his thighs burning from the long crouch. He pushes his hair off his face. "One for the journal, that's for damn sure!"

Dean's phone pings to life, in his pocket. He blinks, pulls it out. "Hey, service." His smile is lit by the pale blue glow of the screen. "Happy New Years, Sammy."


End file.
